Journey's End
by Cameron Dial
Summary: Conclusion of The Hearts of Glass Story Arc


Journey's End

**_By Cameron Dial_**

**_Timeline: Immediately following "Season of Rest,"  
some time before "Highlander: Endgame."_**

_Note: This story concludes "Hearts of Glass," blending that  
 timeline into the larger Highlander canon established with the  
 release of Highlander: Endgame.****_

Hot water and indoor plumbing, Methos thought, were seriously underrated by those who had never done without either. Resting his soapy hands flat on the cool tiles of the shower, he let the water pour over him for several minutes, letting it wash away the last vestiges of soap and sleepiness. MacLeod, predictably, had been up for about two hours already, judging from the sounds that had penetrated through the French doors leading to Methos' bedroom in the suite they shared. For almost a week now, Methos had awakened to the sound of the occasional door opening, the muted rattle of the room service cart delivering MacLeod's breakfast and morning paper, or the Highlander clearing his throat. The last was growing increasingly irritating, Methos had to admit, but not nearly as irritating as the sound of MacLeod jiggling his car keys in one pocket. Irritating because, as far as Methos knew, the man didn't even _own_ a car on the Australian subcontinent, in which case jiggling his car keys could only be a sign of restlessness—the same restlessness, Methos reflected, that had landed them in Australia in the first place.

Just over a week ago, Methos had been sitting in what could easily pass for the middle of the Pacific Ocean, on the forepeak of a 29-foot cutter dubbed _Absolution_ and owned by none other than Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. After abandoning Paris, MacLeod had purchased the 30-year-old boat in Bordeaux and, after a few weeks spent rebuilding the thing, had set out on an around-the-world trip that had spanned a year and a month. Methos, on the other hand, had spent the last six months trailing the Highlander from Scotland to La Havre and the Canary Islands, down the western coast of Africa to the Doldrums, and across the Atlantic to South America. MacLeod, of course, had insisted on rounding the Cape; Methos had taken the far more expedient course of flying to Rio and thence on to Santiago. Eventually, just days apart, they'd both come to Juan Fernando island, then the Galapagos and beyond—although MacLeod's _beyond_ had been a bit more involved than Methos', since the _Absolution_ had been nearly destroyed by a hurricane. MacLeod himself, Methos had later learned, had spent several days floating face down in the ocean before a wave had flipped him face-up again, only to find himself master of a sinking boat and—having lost everything to the storm—very likely facing yet another slow and painful death from starvation.

Not that his solution hadn't been . . . well, the word _novel_ came to mind, Methos thought with a grin. It had taken some time to get MacLeod to tell him why he'd hauled a 15-foot shark on board a boat less than twice that size, but ultimately the tale had been worth the effort. Using the previous owner's spear gun, the Highlander had shot the shark through on the second try, figuring the kill would provide him enough food to get him to whatever his next landing point might be following the storm that had almost destroyed his boat and put him God knew how far off course. More than that, though, he'd admitted, he'd wanted those teeth as a prize--a trophy for having come so far, and for having survived all he had.

"So you hauled it on board with you," Methos remembered saying.

"Yeah," MacLeod had admitted—at which point the shark he'd believed to be dead had proceeded to wreak havoc with what was left of the _Absolution_, smashing his tiller and almost knocking the Highlander overboard before it destroyed his gas tank, broke through the deck of the cockpit and ripped the engine free of its posts before smashing it flat. "And the damned thing _still_ wouldn't die," Mac had grumbled, shaking his head and grinning at Methos' laughter, even if it _was_ at his expense. What the Highlander seemed to have forgotten was that Methos had _seen_ the unholy mess the shark had made of the _Absolution;_ that he had, in fact, hauled MacLeod out from under the beast, and he could picture all too clearly the scene MacLeod was describing.

"And then," MacLeod had said, "the next thing I knew, I was coming to, and there _you_ were."

"Relax," Methos remembered saying. "It's me."

Scant reassurance, but it had put an end to MacLeod's frantic scrambling backward, not to mention the predictable and in this case fruitless search for the sword that should have been near to hand but wasn't.

_"So," Methos had asked him, "where's the katana?"_

_"What?" MacLeod had asked. Lines appeared between his brows for a moment and he'd lifted one hand vaguely, waving toward the deck house. "Back there," he'd said._

_"And I take it you were planning on offering me sushi for lunch?" Methos asked, half a smile quirking his mouth._

_Realization setting in, Mac grimaced, huffing defensively, "I had a perfectly good reason for hauling a shark onboard."_

Chuckling at the memory, Methos squeezed shampoo into one cupped hand as the steam rose around him, carrying the scent of citrus and papaya with it. He spread the liquid thickness through his short hair, working it rapidly into a lather and then ducking under the shower's spray to wash out the bubbles. A few minutes later he was scrubbing a towel through his hair and padding barefoot out of his bedroom, naked except for a pair of midnight blue boxers.

"Was that the phone?" he asked, spotting the Highlander by the picture window. There was no reply, but the receiver in MacLeod's hand told the story.

"Mac?"

His name seemed to startle MacLeod out of whatever reverie he was in, and the Highlander glanced across the room at Methos, seemingly aware only then that he had company.

"Hmm?"

"The telephone," Methos elaborated. "You know—common household electrical device . . . Alexander Graham Bell . . ." One eye on the younger man, Methos raided the room service cart and helped himself to a leftover breakfast croissant and lukewarm tea.

MacLeod set the telephone receiver gently into its cradle. "That was the harbor master," he said. "They've just brought the _Absolution_ into port."

"Ah," Methos said, meaning, _well, that explains that_. "So—who's _they_?" he asked, spreading apple butter on the croissant.

"The coast guard," Mac said.

"Good. I mean, at least you won't have to squabble over property rights with salvagers."

Looking vaguely guilty, MacLeod shot him a look. "What d'you mean?"

Methos took his time chewing, then chased the bite down with a sip of tea. "Well, you _do_ mean to reclaim the boat, don't you?" he asked. "Assuming there's anything left to reclaim, that is. It was pretty beat up, the last I looked."

"I—" MacLeod shut his mouth, aware there was little he could say that wouldn't be an outright lie.

"Of course, I suppose the smartest thing would be to start fresh, with a new boat."

"I—" _What? Hadn't let himself think about it?_ _Not consciously, at least._ MacLeod hesitated. Wait just a bloody minute, he thought. "What do you mean,_ start fresh_?" he demanded.

"To finish sailing around the world," Methos said. "It _is_ what you had in mind, isn't it?" There was, he recalled, a great line from _Mary Poppins_: "Close your mouth, please, MacLeod, we are not a codfish." _Well, something like that, anyway._

"But—I thought . . . I thought we were headed back to Paris!" In the time it had taken him to breathe in and out, MacLeod had gone from stammering uncertainty to frustrated and furious. "Damn it, Methos, I thought that's what this whole thing was about—"

Methos blinked, the face of innocence. "What whole thing is that?" he asked.

"_This_ whole thing!" MacLeod blustered.

"Well, if you _really_ want to know, MacLeod, I haven't a _clue_ what this whole thing is about. _You're_ the one who walked out on your friends and set off on a fool's errand you've been happy to call an adventure—"

"Fool's errand!"

"Yes, _fool's errand_!"

"I'm not going to stand here and let you—"

"No, and why should you?" Methos snapped. "I imagine you can go pretty much anywhere and be called a fool, if not a _damned_ fool. Lord knows I've no particular claim on you!"

"You son of a bitch," MacLeod said quietly.

"_I'm_ a son of a bitch?" Methos asked, eyebrows climbing. Then, with deadly calm, "And what about you, MacLeod? You're the one who walked away, remember."

"_This_ time," MacLeod said. "What about all the times _you've_ walked away?"

"Oh, we're back to that, are we? All right, let's take a good look at the times I've walked away, shall we? The first time was right after you came waltzing into Adam Pierson's life, trailing Kalas behind you—"

"I didn't lead Kalas to you!"

"Didn't you? Do I really need to remind you that he didn't find me until after you did, courtesy of Joe Dawson? And all that beside the point, I was _still _there when Joe needed me in all the fuss with Christine Salzer—"

"Damned generous of you, since you were the one who caused the whole mess—"

"Yes, I _was_, wasn't I?" Methos snapped. "Consider the bloody point acknowledged and go on, would you? God _damn_ it, but no one beats a dead horse the way you do, MacLeod!"

"Dead horse or dead horseman?" MacLeod shot back, and abruptly Methos burst into laughter.

Standing near one of the room's two sofas, the oldest Immortal bent nearly double, laughter tumbling from him as MacLeod watched, irritated, from across the room. After a moment MacLeod turned away to hide a smile, and when he turned back Methos was wiping tears from his eyes. "Oh, God," Methos said at last. He dropped onto the nearest sofa and sprawled there, still sputtering laughter. "You're priceless, MacLeod," he said.  "You do realize, don't you, that you're castigating me over something that happened more than four thousand years ago?"

Shamefaced, Mac had to grin. "Still," he said, "you have to admit it sounded good."

"Yeah," Methos conceded, "there is that." He was quiet a moment, still supine, staring up at the ceiling. Then, with a sigh: "God, MacLeod. What am I going to do with you?" He sat upright, combing his fingers through his still-damp hair, shaking his head as he looked at the other man. "Look," he said. "I've got places to go and things I have to take care of—"

_Places to go and friends that need you, Fitz had said._

Methos cocked his head at him. "What?" he asked.

"It's nothing," MacLeod said, but he didn't stop smiling.

"Anyway," Methos said, "I keep forgetting that I can't be Adam Pierson anymore—"

"Trust me. You haven't been Adam Pierson for a long time."

Methos cocked an eyebrow at him. "Haven't I?" he asked. There was no answer, but then, he didn't really need one. They were quiet for a few minutes, MacLeod staring out of the eighth floor window to the blue of the harbor below. When the Scot glanced his way again, Methos nodded, saying simply, "I thought I'd head back to Paris tomorrow or the next day." He held up a hand, stopping MacLeod before he could speak. "Look, Mac, it's obvious you're not ready to go home yet. Check out your boat. Better yet, buy a _new_ boat. Call it _Redemption_ or _Absolution_ _II_ or anything you want. Sail around the world if you want to, but don't do it because you think it's going to change what's happened. I can tell you right now, the only thing you can ever hope to change about the past is your perspective on it—what it means to you, how you react to it, what you do as a result of it. We can't change the past, Mac. Just the future."

"You sound like the Oracle at Delphi."

Methos snorted. "For all you know," he said, "I _was_ the Oracle at Delphi." He grinned at the look MacLeod gave him, then grew serious. "Mac—"

"I know," the Highlander said quietly. "Methos—I know. I really do."

"I hope so," Methos said. After a moment more he nodded. "All right," he said. "We'll consider it another lesson learned. In the meantime, it can't hurt to finish what you started—"

"Even if it's really stupid?" MacLeod interrupted, eyes twinkling, and Methos laughed out loud.

"Even if it's really stupid," the old man agreed. "And when you're ready to come home . . . well, we'll be there."

"Will you?" MacLeod asked, and Methos looked at him.

"What? You mean me personally?" He looked a bit surprised. "Well," he said, "I won't be in Paris, but I promise I won't be too far off." Methos smiled a bit. "I'll be where you can find me if you need to. London, probably. I still have property in the City. If you need me, you can start looking there. For the moment, though, I'm going to go get dressed, and then you can drag me down to the dock to check out what's left of the _Absolution_. You can even buy me breakfast. A real breakfast, not leftovers."

He slipped away with that, and MacLeod shook his head. _Well, why not?_ He could always use another bite to eat. Not that Methos was exactly a cheap date, he thought with a grin. Maybe he'd put in a call to his lawyers while the old man got dressed, and cancel the power of attorney he'd left Methos when he left Paris. He was almost certainly going to need the money for boat repairs. Perhaps, he thought, even for a new boat.

_  
"Home is the sailor, home from the sea . . ."  
_—Robert Louis Stevenson, "Requiem"

_"I am out of humanity's reach; I must finish my journey alone"_  
—W. Cowper, "The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk"


End file.
